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Doing Bristol is a Jay Dubya time travel story that is now in the Kindle, Nook and Smashwords e-book titled First Person Stories (505 pages).
“Doing Bristol”
Prior to last summer, my personal value system had never placed much faith or credence in what my previous beliefs had regarded as preposterous conjectures in matters like the theory of the time/space continuum, like Twilight Zone parallel universes, or like the prospect of actual time travel. So being a born pragmatist, I’ve either always been rather suspect of such ‘wild speculation,’ or I have been somewhat wary of such ‘impractical science fiction fantasy’. But because of my experiencing certain extraordinary events having their genesis on Monday, August 11th, 2014, I’ve recently learned to respect the powers of certain arcane forces that inexplicably transcend everyday objective scientific investigation and logic.
At 4 p.m. on that sultry afternoon I had dropped-off my wife at the Delta Airlines Terminal of Philadelphia International Airport. Joanne was scheduled to fly to Orlando, Florida to visit her sister Eileen, who would be driving over from her condo’ in Vero Beach to greet her. My spouse would be away for an entire week’s hiatus, with her flight back to Philly’ being scheduled for Monday, August 18th.
After leaving the congested airport vicinity, I drove my silver Nissan Maxima north on I-95 through standard center city expressway traffic, through bustling North Philadelphia industrial zones and soon my vehicle exited the high-density busy thoroughfare at the Levittown/Bristol interchange. Now I have a certain nostalgic memory for that particular Bucks County area, for in the 1950s, me being between the ages of eleven and sixteen, my family had lived at 50 Daffodil Lane in Levittown’s Dogwood Hollow section.
‘I’ve make arrangements to spend the night at the Comfort Inn on Route 13 between Levittown and Bristol,’ I neurotically reminded myself. ‘I’m glad I’ve confirmed my reservation this morning before leaving Hammonton and driving Joanne out of Jersey to Philly’. Before motoring to the Comfort Inn on Bristol Pike, I think I’ll perform a little sentimental tour of Levittown and nearby Bristol.’
I switched on Sirius XM Radio and listened to Chuck Berry’s all-too-stellar “Sweet Little Sixteen” and then heard Bill Haley and the Comets’ sensational rendition of “Rock Around the Clock,” and those most terrific early rock and roll songs immediately resurrected fond recollections from my youth while then living in Levittown. Next I pressed my radio’s second button to reminisce 60s’ tunes and my ears quickly discerned the Dovells fast harmony lyrics belting-out “The Bristol Stomp”, which actually had been a new teen dance that had originated in 1961 at the Bristol Fire and Hose Department Hall, a nifty place where I had attended lively “bobby socks and poodle skirt dances” in 1958 and 1959.
My improvised itinerary around Levittown was quite sentimental-but-melancholy in both scope and sequence. As my Maxima exited left from Route 13 onto Levittown Parkway, my pupils immediately recognized that my revered Catholic high school, Bishop Egan, had been demolished and that a weed-laden, empty lot now occupied the landscape where the four-story building had formerly stood.
Then as I carefully made a left-turn into what used to be the Levittown Shoparama Outdoor Mall, I was saddened to witness that the former shopping center had been razed and has since been replaced with several large modern-day box stores.
‘Wow!’ I instantly regretted. ‘Even the Towne Movie Theater has been eliminated from existence.'' In the mid-fifties my friends and I would frequent the establishment in July and August because that then-new structure was about the only special place that featured the amazing revolutionary technology known as air-conditioning, which to us was actually ''a scarce-but-welcomed novelty.’
I next drove through the community’s Kenwood section, where all the streets began with a K. I gently turned right into Stonybrook with all its S streets and a half mile ahead stopped my automobile outside where the Brook Pool used to be, but now that former popular recreational facility was also gone from existence along with the side Little League baseball field where I had played for the Meenan Oil team in 1954-‘55.
‘Holy cow!’ I sadly lamented. ''Even the pool’s rear basketball court is gone.'' I had enjoyed so many teen Friday night outdoor dances there during the mid-‘50s Golden Age of Rock and Roll. Kids from Stonybrook, Farmbrook and Greenbrook would frequent the Brook Pool that had been by design sandwiched between those three ‘Letter Sections’, and they mingled with clean-cut kids but deliberately avoided the tough greasers from Junewood, Kenwood and Dogwood Hollow.
More dejection entered my heart when I piloted my Maxima into Dogwood Hollow and observed how the homes had generally deteriorated over the course of the last sixty years. My former residence at 50 Daffodil Lane looked almost-alien to my eyes with different dull siding and faded roof shingles being viewed. And much to my utter dismay, a ruinous-looking lawn and accompanying inferior-looking shrubbery were evident throughout the now-aged shabby property.
My final Levittown excursion was me venturing into Junewood, where for two years I had worked a newspaper route delivering the now-defunct Philadelphia Bulletin. ‘I was making ten dollars a week profit, which today would be equivalent to a hundred dollars,’ I recalled and then smiled.
Driving around Junewood, I stopped in front of my old pal Bob Jalonec’s home on Jonquil Lane, and I especially remembered him and his boss green and cream ‘57 Chevy, and then my cluttered mind mentally reviewed the countless hours “Jokes” and I would spend “cruisin’” the region and listening to disc jockey Joe Niagara, the “Rockin’ Bird”, playing the latest hits on WIBG (Wibbage) Radio 99.
My final connection with my ‘50s Levittown past was heading east on Haines Road past the now-empty Delaware Canal and after crossing Route 13, I judiciously applied the brakes and halted in the center of a strip mall, my eyes staring at the Eagle Nest Tavern, which has replaced Hal’s Delicatessen where I had diligently worked inside the business’s backroom kitchen on Saturday and Sunday afternoons to earn additional steak sandwich and pinball money.
My final Bristol Pike visitation was to park my Nissan at the adjacent Dairy DeLite custard stand and actively enjoy devouring a medium-size vanilla cone, my appetite habitually repeating a tasty treat my mouth had savored so often back in the 1950s. As I munched on the soft cone, my eyes glanced next door at a seafood restaurant presently named ‘Under the Pier’, which in the ‘50s used to be the fabulous Feed Bag, which was a popular eatery and teenage hangout where Bob Jalonec and I had encountered a myriad of romantic and culinary adventures.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Continuing on my casual Bucks County jaunt through Bristol, Pennsylvania, population fourteen thousand, I temporarily parked my car in front of the Bristol Fire and Hose Department and soon a mental newsreel of past favorable escapades promptly switched on inside my brain. From Mifflin Street I traveled south to Mill, and at the ‘L right angle corner’ of Mill and Radcliffe Street my silver Maxima slowly descended a short-but-steep ramp, and I quickly maneuvered my comfortable leather-seated Nissan to a parking lot situated next to a Lions Club Park and also conveniently located near the town boat pier, which Bob Jalonec and I had often utilized as our private Delaware River fishing destination.
I departed my vehicle and my elderly feet ambled into the historic King George II Inn, 102 Radcliffe St., which is a landmark Bristol establishment that had originally been constructed in the 17th Century. I nonchalantly sat-down at the bar, ordered a Coor’s Light draft and a medium-well-done sirloin steak with mashed potatoes, and since I was the only patron seated upon a stool, the affable bartender (who identified himself as “Bill”) decided to initiate a friendly conversation.
“Where ya’ from Stranger?”
“Hammonton, over in South Jersey,” I quietly answered. “It’s halfway between Philly’ and Atlantic City.”
“I know the town well,” Bill replied with a smile. “It’s called the Blueberry Capital of the World. My wife and I attend the annual festival each late June over at your high school. Quite an event, I must say! We were just there two months ago!”
“The town’s farmers grow over ten thousand acres of the luscious blue fruit,” I informed the inn’s very efficient employee. “In the 1950s, Hammonton farm acreage was half peaches and half blueberries, but in the end, the blueberry guys won-out and the former peach growers have admitted defeat. Now they almost exclusively harvest the eight-week-long summer blue crop!”
I soon learned that Bill was an avid history and geography enthusiast. “Bristol was named after a city in England,” I remarked. “The Pilgrims sailed from Bristol to Massachusetts on the Mayflower in 1620,” I proudly-but-erroneously stated.
“Not exactly!” the congenial bartender laughed. “The Pilgrims sailed from Plymouth, England and landed near Cape Cod. That’s where we get Plymouth Rock! Lots of places in the New World were named after towns and cities in England. For example: New York, New London, New Hampshire, New Jersey and New Castle Delaware. Your own New Jersey was named after the Isle of Jersey in the English Channel.”
“Well then, didn’t Sir Francis Drake voyage out of Bristol?” I asked, attempting to redeem my very evident knowledge deficiency in the British maritime history category.
“No Sir!” Bill chuckled and then reflexively coughed. “Like the Pilgrims, Drake also embarked from Plymouth. But Sir, Bristol was the home base of John Cabot, the famous North American explorer who led several important expeditions out of the port in 1496!”
Just then, coincidentally, the familiar ‘Bristol Stomp’ rhythm was heard emanating from the tavern’s overhead speakers. I related to my new beer and alcohol acquaintance what represented the true inspiration for the 60s’ hit song.
“One of the singing group’s members had stayed at the Deauville Hotel in Miami Beach, and that’s how the Philly’ group got its name the Dovells,” I authoritatively informed, again endeavoring to compensate for my obvious lacking in Bristol, England nautical history. “Another band member had heard of a new teen dance started right here in town at the Fire and Hose Hall over on Mifflin, so the song’s lyrics were expeditiously composed and the hit number was soon recorded and went national in a hurry.”
Bill nodded his head in appreciation of my sage rock and roll commentary, swiftly stepped into the kitchen and soon returned to serve my plate of sirloin and mashed potatoes, and then the ambitious young man attended to the thirst needs of another guest sitting four stools to my left. When the pleasant young fellow again arrived to where I had been eating, we mutually resumed our cheerful dialogue.
“Ya’ know,” I prefaced, “back in the ‘50s a good buddy and I used to fish off of that pier out there. Of course, we always wanted to come inside for a beer or two but were too young to be served.”
“Yeah, that landing dock date’s back in 1681 when goods and supplies began arriving up the Delaware from Philly’ to Bristol,” the encyclopedic bartender deftly explained. "Those pre-Revolutionary War colonial days must’ve been something else!"
I glanced-up at the inn’s liquor shelf and noticed bottles of Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, Southern Comfort, and Seagram’s Seven displayed among other whiskey favorites, all lined-up and ready for public consumption. “Say Bill, since I’m here in good old Bristol, why don’t you give me a glass of that Harvey’s Bristol Cream up there on the liquor rack?”
“Good choice!” the bartender commended my selection judgment. “It’s a dessert sherry nicely blended ever since the year 1880, but the famous distillery was first begun by Mr. John Harvey and Sons in Bristol, England in 1796.”
“Your impeccable and impressive knowledge of British history is absolutely amazing!” I generously praised. “I guess you know plenty about the blue bottle too?”
“It’s referred to in the trade as Bristol blue glass,” Bill related as the garrulous guy poured the tempting dessert liquor into my glass. “Not too many customers order it. Most prefer chugging-down hard whiskey shots instead!”
“I’m staying the night at the Comfort Inn over on Route 13,” I revealed, desiring to continue our rather courteous conversation. “Say Bill, when was the last time someone else came in here and drank a glass of this Harvey’s Bristol Cream?”
“It was a whole week ago today,” the bartender reflected and then uttered. “Yes, in fact the fellow swallowed-down two glasses. Apparently he really liked the smooth flavor.”
“Well, in that case,” I insisted, “give me a refill. That stuff was positively delicious!”
“Just like yourself’,” Bill calmly stated as he recharged my empty glass, “this guy I’m mentioning also lived in Levittown in the 1950s. Junewood section I believe. Said his name was ‘Bob’ something or other. Was from Florence, South Carolina and was visiting relatives in New York before taking a detour and touring the area before entering the King George. But for the life of me, I can’t remember the fella’s last name. It began with a J., I think.”
My eyes widened and my mouth was then totally agape. “Jalonec?” I asked with subtle surprise.
“Yeah, that’s it!” Bill eagerly verified in a semi-excited tone of voice. “Jalonec! Said he’ was also staying at the Comfort Inn up on Bristol Pike.”
“Know the highway well!” I remarked without divulging that gregarious Bob Jalonec was once my closest Levittown friend. “It’s below Edgely Road and near Green Lane. When I was sixteen, I was a junior fireman for the Edgely Fire Company and there was a big blaze at Delhaas High School over near the small plane airport on Green Lane. Levittown was really something else back then. Could you imagine? Seventeen thousand brand new homes erected on open land in a mere five year period!”
“Maybe I shouldn’t tell you about this incident, Mister,” Bill indicated, getting back to our main topic of discussion, “but this guy Bob Jalonec was back in here just an hour or so ago before you entered. Said he’ was anxiously heading south to Dixie.”
“Did he have another two glasses of Harvey Bristol Cream?” I wondered and inquired. “The stuff is delectable! I think I’ll buy some at the local liquor store and sample it at home! The flavor could be addictive!”
“No Sir!” Bill mildly exclaimed. “The guy instead asked for a double shot of Jack Daniels on the rocks. He drank it down in three seconds as if he had just crossed the Sahara Desert on foot and needed to quench his parched tongue and throat!”
“Did this fella’ Bob J. say anything to you about his seven day activities between his two visits?” I deliberately asked. “Why was he so thirsty?”
“I reckon the gentleman wasn’t nearly as thirsty as he was scared,” Bill communicated with a serious expression suddenly appearing upon his florid face. "Ironically, that same ‘Bristol Stomp’ song began playing and the music seemed to drastically affect the man’s behavior. At least that’s my impression!" the grim-faced bartender qualified. "He slammed a twenty dollar bill on the counter, mumbled some barely discernible words about some weird time and space travel incident, and then the perturbed fella’ rapidly scurried out the door and off the premises, bolting straight to his car like a frightened jackrabbit!”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
My emotions were a trifle addled on the brief drive from the King George II Inn on Radcliffe Street to the Comfort Inn on Route 13. Many random thoughts meandered about inside my head. ‘What a remarkable coincidence!’ I evaluated. ‘I haven’t seen nor heard of Bob Jalonec in over a half century and now I just missed him by a matter of an hour. Swell; at least I now know he lives in Florence, South Carolina. Maybe I’ll look him up in a telephone directory and get on the horn to have a much-needed talk about our memorable past friendship in 50s’ Levittown.’
Being fatigued from the day’s various travails, I gathered my wits and checked into the ‘cookie cutter lodge’, made my way up a flight of steps to Room 201 and slowly unpacked my suitcase. After showering and watching Fox News on cable TV, at eight p.m. I called Joanne on my cell phone to determine how her flight from Philly’ to Orlando had gone. My wife reported that everything was “copacetic” and that the daytime climate in sunny Florida was hot and nearly sweltering.
After hanging-up my portable phone, I brushed my teeth and retired to bed early, all the while anticipating my pleasurable ride across the Delaware on the Burlington-Bristol Bridge back into New Jersey and then enjoying the scenic forty-mile trip south on Route 206 to agricultural Hammonton. For some remote reason, feeling highly exhausted, I fell asleep upon the bed wearing my designer jeans, a light blue cotton shirt, and contrary to my sleeping habits, I was still wearing my white socks and brown penny loafers.
The following morning I awoke at daybreak, but incredulously, the entire room, wallpaper, furniture and decorations were all now quite different in appearance. I hastily opened the drapes, peered out the window and much to my astonishment, Route 13 was nowhere in sight but instead, a heretofore unknown massive edifice with the designation Wellmont Hospital somehow existed across what was now identified by a street sign as ‘West State Street’. A nearby red, white and blue sign surprisingly read I-81. Being fully confused, I hastily dressed, left Room 201 with my plastic key in hand and nervously roamed downstairs to obtain necessary, plausible clarification of my exact whereabouts.
A local tour-guide pamphlet and brochure rack of area sightseeing attractions described such foreign venues as ‘Bristol Speedway just off Exit 5 of I-95’, ‘King College Walking Tours’, ‘Marvelous Bristol Caverns’ and ‘Beautiful Skyline Drive Bus Tours’. I turned my head, glanced at the wall logo situated above the main registration desk and then my bewildered eyes noticed that the new-found emblem mysteriously read: ''Holiday Inn, 3299 West State Street, Bristol, Tennessee''.
‘I guess I’m no longer in Bristol, Pennsylvania!’ my puzzled brain surmised and shockingly realized. ‘I’ll peruse this pamphlet section and try acting inconspicuous while doing so. Then I’ll sit-down in the side room and sort things out over a Continental breakfast!’
One particular brochure showed the colorful photographs of the nearby Comfort Inn, 2368 Lee Highway, Bristol, Virginia. Then my thought processes finally comprehended that Bristol, Tennessee and Bristol, Virginia were sister cities that physically bordered each other in two separate states. For mental security, my hands quickly honored my instinctive reaction. I frantically reached into my back and side pockets and my furious searches, much to my relief, simultaneously confirmed that my wallet and my cell phone were still in my possession.
After consuming my early meal in a rare, perplexed state of mind, I walked-up a flight of steps to Room 201 and after entering, plopped-down on the bed and contemplated my extremely bizarre circumstances. ‘I dare not leave the property if I’m under some obscure evil spell or curse. I don’t want to be jinxed or be punished by mystical supernatural forces I can’t right now clearly fathom,’ I dreadfully assessed. ‘If I boldly step out of the Holiday Inn, then who knows what my’ resultant fate might be?’
I stayed secluded in my room that entire day and later, after regaining my composure, I ordered from room service a hamburger and French fries for supper. My troubled mind was now singularly worried about my arcane time and space travel misadventure. ‘Perhaps this ‘Bristol visitation phenomenon’ is what had caused Bob Jalonec to panic into a frenzy and swallow-down his Jack Daniels double-shot after hearing the Dovells singing ‘Bristol Stomp’ at the King George II bar?’ my mind wondered and conjectured.
At nine that evening I sufficiently calmed-down, called Joanne in Vero Beach and was happy making contact with her and hearing her wonderful, comforting voice over my cell phone. My suspicious-minded wife articulated that she could not reach me during the afternoon and that she was becoming somewhat concerned.
“Maybe my cell phone is only transmitting and had trouble receiving incoming calls,” I cleverly theorized and communicated to my better half. “From now on this week, I’ll call you until I have Verizon correct my cell phone’s malfunction.”
“Okay Honey!” Joanne aptly agreed. “Miss you! Can’t wait to be arriving back home in Hammonton next Sunday! Don’t forget! Meet me at eight at the Delta baggage carousel! Love ya'' Babe! See you then!” Click.
That evening I watched the late night CNN and local newscasts and finally managed to doze-off around midnight. But after a restless night of tossing and turning, I climbed-out of my queen-size bed at dawn, hustled to the window, but amazingly, my vision saw no Wellmont Hospital across the highway. Instead I noticed three distinct arrowed road signs, the first one reading I-93 and the second indicating, “Bristol, New Hampshire.” I clumsily turned-on the side wall light to further investigate the apparent visual aberration. The third arrowed sign in the far distance read: “Wellington State Forest near Newfound Lake.”
‘Oh my God!’ I imagined in awe. ‘I’ve been vacationing in these parts before. This is no doubt New Hampshire out there. Joanne and I had taken a senior citizen bus trip up here three falls ago to enjoy the splendor of the autumn foliage. The White Mountains are just north of here and Wolfeboro and Lake Winnipesaukee located just southeast. If I accurately recall, Squam Lake is geographically near Lake Winny. That’s where the popular 70s’ movie On Golden Pond had been filmed! In fact,’ I remembered, ‘friends of ours had moved up here from Jersey and now live not too far away in Meredith. If I had the courage, I’d intrepidly walk out of this Comfort Inn and pay Steve and Nancy a visit in an effort to escape this terrible ongoing Bristol nightmare!’
The following three nights the same type of reprehensible time/space travel pattern had been experienced and again repeated in Hilton Double Tree Hotel and Comfort Inns in Bristol, Rhode Island, in Bristol Virginia, and in Bristol, Connecticut. All the while, fortunately I was able to successfully recharge my cell phone, call Joanne and pretentiously assure her that out of sheer boredom, I had been staying the week in New York City attending ‘a spectacular merchandise show’ being featured inside a huge exhibit hall near Columbus Circle.
The sixth night I was fretfully staying in Room 201 of the Bristol, Connecticut Double Tree Hotel on 42 Century Drive. Again, I dared not leave the building out of fear of some unintended supernatural repercussions being surreptitiously administered upon me by alien invisible powers. My whole beleaguered psyche was now overwhelmed with abundant dread and apprehension. My spirit and audacity were both indeed being mercilessly challenged.
After I almost-mechanically ate an ordinarily excellent crab cake dinner inside the exclusive Willow Restaurant, I strolled across the Double Tree’s lobby and then curiously trekked around the entire downstairs, impatiently examining without any specific purpose the facility’s exercise room and large indoor swimming pool, both accommodating amenities enclosed inside the high-end boutique hotel’s glass-paneled atrium.
A tall, thin gentleman standing in the main lounge innocently asked me if I had attended the recent Newport Jazz Festival just across the state line in Rhode Island. I quickly answered a little too curtly, “No Sir. I prefer the mid-June Monterey Pop Festival out in California!” I then briskly sauntered away to again be alone in my misery.
‘Gee! Now I know why Bob Jalonec was acting so petrified and so psychotic last Sunday afternoon at the King George II Inn!’ I genuinely-but-erratically thought. ‘And no one at any of the hotels has been charging any fees or expenses to my credit card. All I do is sign my name and show the waiters and employees my 201 room key! If I ever get back to Hammonton,’ I decided, ‘I’m never going to risk my reputation and disclose this hellish tale to anyone, including Joanne! The only person on the face of the Earth whom I might ever consider telling is Bob Jalonec!’ I rationally concluded. ‘If I ever get back to Jersey with some remaining sanity, I think I’ll spend several weeks rehabilitating in Ancora State Mental Hospital in order to recover from this incredibly outlandish and wholly enigmatic Bristol six-state astral journey!’
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Much to my emotional alleviation, on Sunday, August 18th I awoke, hopped out of my bed, bolted to the window, opened the drapes and immediately, thankfully perceived that Bristol Pike, Route 13 constituted the ordinary outside physical and commercial environment. I quickly turned on a table lamp, examined my wristwatch and was elated to note that the time was 6:15 a.m. and that the timepiece’s calendar element indeed indicated August 18th.
I next ecstatically paced to the bathroom, removed my harshly wrinkled designer jeans, blue cotton shirt, brown penny loafers and white socks. Next I showered, shaved my week-long beard (for my small traveling bag had still been kept inside my suitcase), and then I merrily donned my much-needed change in underwear, summer weight black pants, green tee-shirt and new white socks.
‘This Bristol Comfort Inn already has my credit card,’ I reasoned. ‘I’ll just leave a twenty dollar maid’s tip on the bureau along with the room key and furtively exit the lodge. I’ll skip the monotonous free Continental breakfast and later eat at a New Jersey diner on the drive back to Hammonton.’
Then I again rushed to the window to confirm that my 2013 silver Nissan Maxima was still there in the lodge’s asphalt parking lot. ‘Oh yes!’ I gladly thought upon performing additional searching. ‘My car keys are still in the top bureau drawer, right where I had deposited them last Sunday night!’
I was never so happy to be back in Jersey again after crossing the two-lane Burlington-Bristol Bridge into Burlington City, which like Bristol, was an old Delaware River town dating back to the American colonial era. Somewhere between Mt. Holly and Medford on Route 541, my disheveled mind awkwardly rehashed the exceptionally strange developments that I had inadvertently survived during the past incomparable seven days.
‘I refuse to turn on Sirius XM radio and accidentally hear the Dovells singing Bristol Stomp,’ I firmly resolved. ‘And I’m never going back to the King George II Inn like Bob Jalonec had unfortunately done. And I’m never again going to stay at the Route 13 Comfort Inn either. And I’m never ever again going to drink two or more glasses of Harvey Bristol Cream. And absolutely,’ I further rationalized, ‘I’ll never ever do any combination of those four Bristol-related things on the exact same day!’
After having a pancakes, coffee and bacon breakfast at the Red Barn Restaurant on Route 206, I called Joanne in Vero Beach to see if any time changes had been made for her return flight from Orlando to Philly’ International. Truthfully, I was never so glad to hear her soft, feminine voice chatting about simple, nondescript, mundane, every day matters.
On my final drive home to Hammonton, my mind still futilely tried understanding how I had consecutively time/space voyaged from Bristol, Pennsylvania to Bristol, Tennessee, to Bristol, New Hampshire, to Bristol, Rhode Island, to Bristol, Virginia, to Bristol, Connecticut, and then miraculously arriving full-circle back to the Comfort Inn, Bristol, Pennsylvania.
After gingerly pulling into my all-too-familiar driveway and stopping to obtain my week-long mail, I coyly decided while sitting behind the steering wheel, ‘The next time Joanne flies down to Florida to visit her sister in Vero Beach, I’m going to merrily drive down to Florence, South Carolina and have a lengthy chat with Jalonec about our dual week-long Levittown and Bristol adventures. Bob and I will definitely have a plethora of items to converse about. And then,’ I imaginatively considered, ‘I’ll secretly motor down to Vero and pay a surprise visit to my wife and sister-in-law.’
Jay Dubya
(author of 52 books)
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I had a similar experience recently while taking a whirlwind 3000 mile journey from Houston to Lake Havasu City and back. It was like, "What hotel am I in today?"
Ron